


Kinesthetic

by Shadowesque



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-31 12:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10899759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowesque/pseuds/Shadowesque
Summary: Wherein Church is an android, extremely tactile, and gets what he wants. Prompted with: "Forgetting why it mattered."





	Kinesthetic

Washington starts when Church’s fingers casually brush through hair and over the base of his skull. Actually bolts to his feet, reaching for a gun that he doesn’t actually have on him, because they’re supposed to be relaxing and out of armor out of uniform and he feels very naked and unsafe.  
  
That’s just the trauma talking. He’s fine. But his senses scream, echoes that aren’t real except in memory (and memory is too real, the most real thing to him, even if he can’t trust any of it). Church is also talking, hands up, mouth fucking flapping, but he can’t hear any of it. For once, Church isn’t the loudest thing in the room. That would be Wash’s heart.  
  
He forces himself to sit, even though that static itchy feeling along his skin hasn’t gone away. Breathes through clenched teeth. Fingers smooth out the seat on either side of him. Even though he hears only the muted sounds of voice, he cuts through and interrupts anyway. “Don’t do that.”  
  
“Do _what_? I barely touched you.” That much he can hear through the noise in his head, muffled and far away.  
  
Wash breathes for another minute, and surprisingly enough, Church doesn’t press the issue. His heart calms. Clamminess kicking in, but at least that indicates a passing of the psychological shockwave. He motions to the back of his head. “The ports where they jacked AI in. It’s sensitive. Don’t touch it.”  
  
“…Oh.”  
  
Wash can feel Church’s eyes on him, on the mangled slot beneath short hair, scars where his own fingernails scrabbled to get the presence out, where his violent thrashing made operations and immediate post-op dangerous. The hole left when Epsilon killed a version of himself and the holographic bullet might as well have passed right through the base of his own skull. He whips his head around to stare hard at Church. Doesn’t say anything, just stares, mouth a thin frowning line, unmoving.  
  
“I’ll try to remember that,” the AI-with-a-body mumbles, shuffling out of the room and leaving Wash to his blessed silence.  
  
It’s later, lunchtime, and Church–elbows on table, chin in hands, frown set, eyes searching–is being incredibly annoying. The least he could do is pretend to eat, but his stupid robot ( _android_ , Simmons made sure to repeatedly explain) body doesn’t need food, so he’s fucking just sitting there instead. Wash is doing his best to ignore this. But he’s really getting sick and tired of being _under observation_ for seemingly no reason. Wash’s patience starts to run out until his fist and thus the back end of his spoon strike the table with a firmly metal sound, and he glares without lifting his head, from under his brows.  
  
Before he can ask, Church is already talking, because _of course he is_. “So where _can_ I touch?”  
  
He…was not expecting that question, and his head raises to meet synthetic eyes squarely, bemused. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Back of the head’s out,” Church says, finger flicking out as if the count off. “Anywhere else you don’t need my hands, or is that about the only big flashing keep out sign I should be wary of?”  
  
His eyes narrow. “Why do you want to touch me?” That seems…pretty creepy.  
  
Church is having none of it, giving him an ‘are you kidding’ look. “Wash, c'mon, you don’t just _waste_ a body like this.” His eyes roll skyward, and he pushes away from the table. “I’ll just avoid scar tissue altogether, how about we just leave it at that.”  
  
He’s out of the room, and Wash just stares at his afterimage. Not sure how Church can avoid scar tissue when, in many cases, _he’s_ scar tissue. But he’s curious to see where this is going.  And he has to admit it: it _would_ be a shame to waste a body like that.  
  
It takes time. Injuries usually do take time to heal. Church almost makes a game out of it, and Wash almost lets him indulge most of the time. Casual touches. Here. There. Without warning, which Wash lets known is dangerous, but Church smirks instead. Every time he tries for that spot, the port, the back of the head, the top of the neck, the warning sign, Wash can’t help it; he reacts. Sometimes worse than other times. Snap, growl, back off. Wild wounded wolf.  
  
But other parts of his body work just fine. Shoulder, arm, hand. Fingers. Intertwining. Church initially keeps his word and avoids most of the scars. Initially. But in his service to the Freelancers and after, and even before, Washington’s body has become a battlefield of lines being drawn again and again. Too many times, the enemy seems to be himself. Church’s eyes must be good, or must have some form of scanning technology he doesn’t speak about, because while touching Wash’s chest seems to be a success, his fingers manage to avoid clusters and mountainous ridges of scarring even with a shirt or undersuit on top.  
  
Church catches him in the gym shirtless, not uncommon, even pretends to join, except it’s not very fair when his android-robot body can benchpress as much as Wash can with one arm and break no sweat. (Can he sweat? He doesn’t know. Never thought to ask. Isn’t likely to ask, because…that’s kind of creepy, what kind of question is that?) So Church comes over and drifts fingers across deformed, discolored tissue, to healthy skin, and back again. Wash stills. Stares afar for a time before his eyes decide to search Church’s face. He seems fascinated. And fascinating.  
  
Church smirks again, the jackass, catching his eyes, and Wash grunts, moving away. Chest with scars: apparent success.  
  
The back is a little tricky. Not that Wash is sensitive, but coming up from behind to feel a jumpy supersoldier up isn’t smart. For an AI overlord robot asshole, Church is remarkably dumb as shit. But that’s why he sometimes comes from the front, puts his arms around Wash, and just…touches his back. Starts at the middle. Tries lower. Goes higher. Shoulders. Wash gives him a warning look the time he tries his neck, and as usual, reacts when he lets it go higher.  
  
And it’s Wash letting it happen. It has to be. Wash should be better than this, not encouraging or enticing this to keep happening, but maybe since Church expects something to change, he might be expecting change, too. They’re both at fault. Why is that spot so important when Church could touch him literally anywhere else and probably be fine? Is it like the big shiny red button that says 'do not press’, is that what it is? The desire for something he can’t have?  
  
When Church starts experimenting with legs, Wash is starting to understand that maybe the desire for something one cannot have doesn’t necessarily apply _only_ to Church. He discovers Wash’s ticklish feet on a day that Church gets kicked in the face. Androids can’t bleed, but they sure as hell can whine about how much it hurts for the rest of the fucking day. Calves go well. Wash only raised a few questioning brows at Church when he settled somewhere on the floor near Wash’s legs. At an angle that would be hard to directly kick his face at, he notes.  
  
Wash is curious about Church’s curiosity. He wants to see this play out. He’s pretty sure he knows where it’s going, and that’s baffling, but it’s also building some anticipation here, in ways he doesn’t want to admit, feels guilty for acknowledging. So he lets the weirdness go on with only the occasional comment.  
  
Thighs. Those go really well, because Wash doesn’t let Church pick the day to test that out. He actually catches Church by the arm and drags him down to his lap. Takes those wandering hands in his, puts them on top of his thighs, wherever Church isn’t already sitting. Then sits back and lets it happen. Church’s surprise melts into a grin, lopsided, genuine, eager. Experiments with hands, and moves his body a little, like his using his own thighs to feel out Wash’s. Never too close. Not close enough to seem…explicit, but fucking close all the same. Hands slide to the underside of thighs, and Church leans in, smarmy look and all, like he’s winning some kind of game.  
  
So does Wash. He matches the look. Silently encouraging more.  
  
Apparently when the thighs are all in order, Church is done with today’s experiment and removes himself from Washington’s lap and leaves, as quickly as Wash had pulled him in. As if he’d planned it all along. As if nothing had happened. Except a case of blue balls he was really not anticipating having to deal with…ever, much less now, much less around Church.  
  
This game’s gotten dangerous.  
  
They can’t be doing this. _He_ can’t be doing this. This is _Church_. This is Alpha. This is a tortured shell of an AI that thinks itself a ghost of a human stuffed inside a realistic humanoid technosuit. This is not Epsilon, and this is not some teasing fling, and this is not a joke or a prank or a game.  
  
Wash decides to make this more interesting despite his better senses. Avoids–not Church, can’t avoid Church, but avoids the touching, the way he should have been doing from the start. Ducks arms, twists around hands, dodges fingers. This is the side of the battle (not a game, but a tactical fight) he can control. With enough discouragement, maybe Church will knock it off. See it as boredom. Or disinterest. Like Wash has gotten what he wants out of this.  
  
Or it could have the opposite effect. Cat and mouse. They’re both vigilant, aware without trying to show awareness. Some days, Church doesn’t try at all. Their space has bubbles, and if those spaces are crossed, it’s all casually accidental. Wash had been getting so used to the touches that he doesn’t find himself minding bumped shoulders when walking by or brushed fingers when passing items. He _does_ find himself starting to miss how nice it was to have human(ish) contact. Gentle intertwining of fingers as well as a not so innocent grind on his lap. The rumpled way his hair looks after being played with. His scars being mapped out, tactile.  
  
It’s been a long time since he’s thought of himself as tactile in a way that doesn’t involve fighting. And he decides maybe he can take it. Maybe this isn’t so bad.  
  
Maybe he’s allowed to have this. But the hope is squirreled away. If there’s one thing he’s realized the universe hates, it’s him, or at least his hopes and dreams. Wanting a good thing makes it that more likely that it’ll be taken away. And he doesn’t want Church taken away again.  
  
The thought surprises him more than when he finds Church and doesn’t stop, doesn’t stop until his arms are around the android, pulling him tight against him, his own hands starting to roam.  
  
“Took you long enough,” Church pretends to grouse, hands going from thighs, ass, hips, up his sides, shoulders.  
  
“Shut the fuck up.”  
  
Church’s hands slide along his jaw, fingers lightly tracing his lips, nose, cheeks, eyes when Wash’s flutter shut momentarily, forehead, hairline. “I dunno, I think you’re gonna have to make me.”  
  
That’s too easy a line. Wash doesn’t really care. He takes in Church’s false body, but what a form it is, and looks into those false eyes, and leans in close to smell that false smell, and none of that matters because this is as real as anything that’s ever happened to him, more real than memory, and he wants it. Tips in enough to kiss. Gentle, first. Testing.  
  
He passes the test and presses harder, presses to taste, and Church’s fingers slide down the back of his head, over his neck, and there’s a smile, a laugh bubbling up under the kiss.  
  
“Hey,” he says, when their mouths part enough for him to, “you didn’t even twitch that time.”  
  
Wash forgets why that even matters when he goes to shut Church up again.


End file.
